


Hero

by kurofu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: How Do I Tag, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by The Wizard of Oz, M/M, OC-centric, Time Skips, Unbeta'd, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurofu/pseuds/kurofu
Summary: A lonely Child. A good Wizard. A bad Wizard. Four Companions. And a Quest to save Hogwarts. What could go wrong?:::::::“W-wait!” The puppy cried his face slightly green, “Why… why are you doing this?”For the Greater Good, he replied. He began to leave when Hermione called out.“Whyus?”He turned back to stare at her, incredulous, I didn’t put you up to this; you did it to yourselves. Now, it’s kill, or be killed.





	Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Wizard of Oz, watched it recently and had an idea, and I don't know how to prompt, so this happened.  
> Warning: OC-centric + weird POV + Unbeta'd
> 
> Note: The OC doesn't use ""'s

Bright light seared through closed eyelids, making him see fleshy-pink when he gained conscious. Dull brown eyes flashed open and immediately shirked away from the bright, bright sun. The averted eyes looked around. Tall grass waved around him, undulating in a soundless rhythm.

The boy slowly got up, aches appearing as he stretched to his full height. He noticed that the grass was an inch or so shorter than him, and stretched as far as any sea could ever be. And below him was flattened grass, in the shape of his body. Like those dead body outlines in those crime shows his brother loved to watch. The irony was not lost on him, and he gave out a self-deprecating chuckle.

He contemplated where he was, probably out in the fields of the farm they were visiting. He should get going soon, his brother might be waiting, maybe getting mad too. Who knows. His brother’s temper was like the sea, like Poseidon himself, calm and peaceful in a moment, and dark and tempest the next.

But, it was nice here, so very nice.

It was warm— not muggy warm, or toasty warm, just, _warm_. There was no sound except the _swish-swish_ of the grass. He wanted to stay here forever. This could be his secret place, find a map and mark it, and hide it away from everyone.

Maybe not his brother.

Sighing in defeat, the boy closed his eyes and counted one, two, three, all the way to ten. Then he spun himself, around and around and around, until he was positive he would fall. He stopped and steadied himself, counted ten, nine, eight, all the way to one and opened his eyes. He walked forward.

:::::::

On and on he went. He walked for miles in one direction, afraid that if he suddenly changed paths he’ll miss the end in this endless sea of grass. He sweated and sweated underneath the hot sun, and he thought he’d _die_ , but he never passed out. He did not thirst nor did he tire; so on and on he went.

:::::::

There! Oh, right there! A sight for sore eyes, like a sparkling oasis in a dusty desert from that book he once read before.

He ran forward, unmindful of his sopping clothes, and threw himself to the ground. The boy dunked his head in the cool, refreshing water. He gulped and gulped and gulped until he could no more. The boy stayed there for awhile, staring, as the bubbles left him slowly. He wondered what would happen.

But his brother was waiting.

His head whipped up immediately, droplets splashing onto his feverish skin. He was dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He sucked in air, large mouthfuls of air before his body fell sideways on the grassy ground. He laid there, still heaving, looking at the opposite bank of tall, never-ending, waving grass.

And he closed his eyes.

:::::::

“Oh, he’s beginning to stir! Quick, get the healer, Allie, quick!”

Soft light greeted him when he opened his eyes. He stared up ahead, at the little spiderweb cracks in the far right corner of the ceiling. His back was on something firm, something was on top of him. It was heavy, constricting.

He heard a voice, but he was scared. It didn’t sound like his brother. It was too high, too soft. The voice said something again— like, a question. Was it asking him a question?

“Sir? Sir, are you feeling well?”

A hand passed through his vision, and he blinked, his concentration gone. Water, he rasped. Immediately a glass was placed on his lips. He sat up and drunk greedily from it, sputtering and choking as he did so.

A hand soothed his back as he coughed, it was wrong. Too small and too soft. Not his brother.

The door opened, and a rustling of cloth rushed in.

“Amy, what did you do? Oh, you poor boy. Here have a napkin”

A cloth was thrust into his sight, the hands that held it were wrong. Too long. Too callused. Not his brother.

He took it with a weak smile and rubbed his face with it. Hiding, he was scared. He took the fabric off and said ‘thanks’ with a big, big smile. He finally looked up at the owners with the wrong hands.

Two girls with brown hair and black eyes, twins maybe. One shorter than the other by a centimeter or two. An aging woman with kind, wise eyes stood beside them. All three wearing dreary colored dresses that touched their ankles. As he observed, the door opened once more.

An old man walked in, like the man in the North. With a white long beard and a happy face, and glasses on his nose too. His clothing was weird. Weird and flowy, like a dress, but not a dress. The colors were… eccentric? The boy struggled with the word.

Not his brother. He was scared.

But all he said was ‘who are you’.

The old man smiled at that, “These fine ladies beside me are Allie and Amy, and their matron, Madam Pomfrey. Madam Pomfrey was the one who took care of you after you were brought here two days ago, my boy.” Two days? He was here for _two days_? His brother must be so angry. “And I am Dumbledore, the Great Wizard of the East.”

‘Wizard’, like the old man from that series of books about a ring? The boy stared at the ‘Great Wizard of the East’ with skeptic eyes.

“Ah, I see that you don’t believe me,” The girls gasped at that, “It’s fine. We shall head down and talk, I’m sure you’re anxious to move your legs.”

At that, the boy’s muscles began to ache. His eyes widened, and he hastily threw the covers off. About to run, but he remembered where he was. Who these people were. Not his brother.

I’m sorry, he said, but may I use the restroom, sir?

It was the kind woman who answered, “Indeed you may! Come, come, the washroom’s right around the corner.”

He was bustled into another room. A simple small room with a toilet, a tub, and a mirror and vanity set. He headed for the set, bypassing his urging need to relieve himself. The boy nearly ripped off his shirt in his haste.

Gone.

Gone.

_Gone_. He felt fear dousing him.

He stared at the boy in the mirror. Disbelief marred the young face. Dirty blonde hair, pale skin, dull brown eyes, freckles on the nose bridge, skinny arms and torso. It was the same.

It wasn’t the same.

They were _gone_ , his brother’s marks.

:::::::

He walked down the creaky stairs. Counting each step as he went— one, two, three, four— until he reached the bottom. At the last step, he entered a large dark room with a high ceiling. Paintings lined the walls, all the way up.

“Sir!” He heard a cry, and then a hand was latched onto his and pulling him leftward. He stared at the hand, as it led him through the table-filled floor. Not his brother. He winced when his hip checked the sharp edge of a table. Probably a splinter pierced through.

The hand stopped and he looked up. It was the girl again, the shorter one, she led him to a table. The other two females were already there and the old man too.

The old man gestured for him to sit, so he did. “My boy, you _must_ try the butterbeer here, it is simply one of a kind! Amy, would you please? Allie, would you also grab us some things to munch on? Thank you my dears.” The girls left, and the old man stared at him. “You must have questions, I’m sure you do. But first, please tell us how we may address you.”

The boy blinked and hesitated. Maybe a second too long. Morse, he said. Morse for ‘morsel’. Named by his brother himself. He called him ‘morsel’, once upon a time.

“And how old are you, young Morse?”

Again, he hesitated. Fourteen, he replied. He thinks he is, he’s sure he is. Fourteen, he’s fourteen. Or was that last year? His brother hasn’t said anything about it, or had he? He struggled to think, and the boy missed the next question asked of him.

“Mr. Morse? Mr. Morse!” He was shocked out of his thoughts. Yes, I’m sorry, Madam, he apologized, I was lost in thought, and gave her a smile. Can you please repeat the question, sir?

“I asked if you had any questions,” Smiled the ‘wizard’.

I do sir, he said. So he asked his questions.

:::::::

It’s been two months. Two months since he asked his questions. Two months since he arrived at Gryffindor. Two months since he saw his brother.

His skin has tanned. No longer pale and skinny, he was lithe and slightly muscled. His right arm held a broadsword, which he swung down on a dummy, hard. It cracked and splintered under the force. The boy stepped and bent back, dodging an incoming sword arc an inch away from his face. He immediately retaliated with a jab to the dummy’s chest, hay flying from the chest wound. To his left, a sword whistled through the air, he raised his left arm, a shield upon it. He tore out his sword, pivoted, and sliced the dummy’s torso clean. Sweat was running down his face, and he panted harshly, waiting for the next attack. There was sound near him, to the right? _No_ , behind. He whirled around, sword prepared to strike, when he stopped.

There, Dumbledore stood with a proud face, his hands were clapping. “Wonderful, absolutely wonderful, my boy! Your skill has greatly improved since last week!”

Before he could reply, Allie ran up to him with a towel and a mug of cool water. He thanked her, and her cheeks became slightly pinked. Allie’s been doing that for a while, he wondered why. But he brushed it off because Dumbledore was here.

It’s only because of you, Dumbledore, he said, without you, I wouldn’t be like this. He smiled and gained one in return. They walked in companionable banter until the wizard stopped and turned towards him. The boy’s smile fell off his face when he saw the serious face on the normally jovial elderly.

“Morse, you have done yourself well these past two months and your skill is well enough for you to take the next step.” Dumbledore paused, “I’m afraid I bring sad news.”

Is it, he hesitated, About the Evil Wizard of the West? I’ve read that another village has been terrorized.

“I’m afraid so,” The Great Wizard of the East said, voice grim and filled with grief, “The Evil Wizard of the West is gaining in power, and he is abusing it. I don’t want to ask this of you, young Morse, but I must: will you do your duties and save Hogwarts?”

Unlike his answers two months ago, he answered with no hesitation. Yes. Yes, of course, sir. I will do anything that you ask of me, anything.

The Great Wizard sighed and gave him a sad, but relieved face. “You will go on a journey, my boy, with hardships and trials. You will have to be brave and face them. You will meet many— good men, bad men, and men in between. Do _not_ be fooled by a simple face, or lured by soft words.” He watched as Dumbledore paused and gained a far-away look, and wondered what it was. Had Dumbledore done this before? He sounded so knowledgeable.

“Come,” The wizard said as if he hadn’t just spaced out a moment before, “Let us get you ready. I’ll explain your quest before you leave.”

:::::::

He looked back upon the road he walked.

It was the fifth time already, he had to stop. No use in getting sentimental, he had a duty to fulfill.

But his mind wasn’t listening and kept playing back to his departure.

Allie had been crying, well everyone was, the people that he knew anyway. But she was crying, and it hurt, he had no idea why. She said something weird too, something he couldn’t decipher. It was about ‘love’? He was pretty sure what she had for him wasn’t love, because his brother loved him too, but it was diff—

“Hermione, Hermione! Please come down! I’m sorry that I ruined your book, please, just come down!”

The boy stopped in his tracks and searched for the loud voice. It echoed through the red-leaved trees, seemingly starting from nowhere and everywhere. He stood there, confused, and the booming voice repeated and echoed itself again. But this time, soft hisses responded, so he followed it.

All the way to a flame-haired teen screaming at a tree. The teen in front of him screamed again, and the hisses hissed back. Do trees hiss? He slowly crept behind them, wary of them. Because Dumbledore said so. At this distance, he could make out the hissing noises as words. Do trees talk? He didn’t think so, but somehow, magic existed here, so it could be true.

“No, don’t you dare, Ronald! That book was expensive! One of a kind! Precious!” The hissing words cried, rising in volume. It sounded feminine, the R’s purred and S’s hissed. Not like a snake, but like a cat. “It was the only copy in our village! And you _used it as KINDLE WOOD! Fire_ food!”

Someone used a book to light a fire? That’s rude. He looked up at the tree and noticed it. The speaker was a cat. An actual cat. A ginger-blonde pug-faced cat was hissing about a book. A book of all things. Not a fish or about spilled milk, but a _book_.

He put it on the stressful morning he had today, and that’s the only reason why, because he promptly fainted.

:::::::

Something was patting his face. A hand. A large hand, but smaller than his brother. Too few scars. Like his brother’s. Was he here?

Slap. Slap.

“Hey, you okay?”

Slap. SLAP!

His eyes blinked open with shock and fear. He pushed upon the body leaning over him with all his might. It was shoved off and landed on the wooden floor with a loud _‘oof’_. He wasn’t expecting for it to actually fall. Was his brother sick today? Is that why he’s so weak or was it bec— NO! He scuttled back, hitting his wall; it dug into him in painful angles, like tree bark. He held out his tan arms in front of him, afraid for what was to happen next. His tan hands— tan? He wasn't _tan_ , he was pale! He heard footsteps nearing him, and his head shot up.

But it wasn’t his brother. It wasn’t his room. There was no wooden floors or single mattress or his wall with old band posters.

It was a flame-haired teen with threadbare clothes that stood before him. Below him was a forest floor, and behind him was a tree trunk. And he remembered where he was. He was on a quest, to save Hogwarts from the Evil Wizard of the East.

“ _Ow_ mate, what was that for?” The flame-haired teen said while rubbing his sore behind. Did the teen see? He hoped not.

“That, Ronald, is what you get for slapping someone awake,” And a pug-faced cat appeared, sounding vindictive, “You should have shaken him awake, not slap him. But it’s karma. You burned my book, you get punished.” The cat turned towards him with a soft face, “Are you okay? You took quite a fall when you fainted.”

He wanted to answer that he was fine, but all he could say was, ‘a talking cat’.

Its face immediately soured, “Yes, a talking cat, is that a problem?”

No, no, he apologized, I’ve just never seen a talking cat before. And yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking.

“Awesome!” The teen exclaimed, “I’m Ron, by the way, and sorry about that, you didn’t wake up.

Morse, he offered.

“Well anyways, Morse, you seem to be a traveler, where are you going? We’re from Hollow. I’m—” A cat-ly cough interrupted him, “Well _Crookshanks_ and me— _OW_! What was that for?”

“It’s _Hermione_ , not that weird name that your family calls me,” The cat stiffly said, “And it's ‘I’ not ‘me’.”

“Whatever. Well, _Hermione_ and _I_ ,” The teen pointedly exaggerated, “Are looking for ways to earn money, so we’re heading to the capital.”

So am I, he said, I’m heading to Hogsmeade too.

“Great! Let’s go together then! I’m a great trapper; I promise that we’ll have meat every single night! We won’t go hungry and…”

So they went, a boy, a teen, and a cat.

:::::::

“ _Agh_ , I’m so hungry…” Ron was complaining. Again.

“Well, you shouldn’t have eaten _all_ of our supplies, Ronald. Now both Morse and I are hungry.” And Hermione was reprimanding, again.

Their banter was never-ending, ranging from any and all topics. From the length of a grass blade to the color of the dusk sky. His stomach grumbled again. Stupid Ron and his stupid appetite. Stupid Ron and his promise of meat. Stupid him for not listening to Dumbledore.

On and on they went, until the eternal heat of Gryffindor mellowed to an occasional cool breeze.

:::::::

“Achoo!”

Bless you, Hermione, he said.

The cat sniffed, “Thank you, Morse, at least you have common courtesy. Unlike Ronald.” She said it bitterly. He wondered why, did she like him? He read about something like that in a book before. A girl fancies her best friend, but unable to reach him. He thought it was sad.

He shivered. The weather was getting cooler the farther they walked away from Gryffindor. He thinks they’re nearing Ravenclaw. Dumbledore said it was colder there. They should have bought the warm cloaks from the last village.

“Ugh, why is it so _cold_?” Whined Ron. “It was never this cold in Hollow, was it cold at Valor?”

No, he replied, remembering the nice heat from the major city of Gryffindor.

“Ronald!” Hermione chastised, “you learned this before, your mother taught you! Hufflepuff has eternal Spring, Ravenclaw has eternal Winter, Gryffindor has eternal Summer!”

“Yeah, yeah, and Hogwarts has all four. I remember, Hermione, no need to get your fur all riled up.” Hermione hissed at him in response.

Wait, you said ‘all four’, but Hermione only named three seasons, he questioned, why?

“W-well, Morse, the last season is in S-Slytherin.” The cat stuttered, “The County in the West. It’s also where the E-evil Wizard of the West resides. We don’t speak of him or his county, Morse, it’s _taboo_.”

Taboo, huh. Is the Evil Wizard really that bad? Maybe, possibly, but probably not as much as his broth—

Something crashed into the three of them. And everyone went sprawling onto the cold stone road. A sharp pebble dug into his side, it hurt.

“ _Hey!_ Watch where you’re going, y-you…” He looked up when Ron faltered.

On the ground with them was another male, around the same age as Ron. He wore warm-looking robes, with a small fur collar. His head was bowed as he rubbed the back of black locks, but when it rose, he only saw the most mesmerizing green he’s ever seen. He was pretty, like the elves and faeries of the stories his brother let him read. Like his brother.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry for the accident.” The faery said, “Um, would you mind helping me find my glasses? I’m blind without them…”

“O-oh, yes! Here, let me find them for you,” Ron stuttered out, pink appearing on his cheeks, he wondered if Ron was cold.

“Here,” Hermione padded up to the faery, dropping the glasses into his hand.

“Thank you,” The faery smiled, and it was brilliant. “I’m Harry, Harry of Erudite.”

“Oh! Isn’t that near Sophia?” The cat gushed at Harry— such a plain name for someone so pretty. “Is it _true_ that _everyone_ in Ravenclaw is pretty? And you’re so pretty! I’m Hermione, by the way. Oh and the number of books! It must be like heaven right?”

Harry didn’t look surprised at a talking cat, “Thank you for the compliment, Hermione, but I’m actually average in looks. Yes, Erudite is near the major city, and yes, we have a lot of books.

“And who are you two? Strangers from, the County of the East, Gryffindor?”

Ron was too busy blushing to reply properly so he answered instead. I’m Morse, and he’s Ron. All three of us are from Gryffindor. We’re looking for a route to Hogsmeade, do you know of one?

“Hogsmeade?” Harry’s face lit up and beamed, he clapped his hands together, “My! Let’s go together; I need to go there anyway. I’m a potioneer by the way, so I can help if any injuries or sickness are received. I’m glad…”

So the journey continued with a boy, a teen, a cat, and a faery.

:::::::

He drank back the potion that Harry gave him, the effects immediate. His cuts and bruises were beginning to fade, and his sore muscles began to leave.

The boar was really hard to kill, but it was worth it, they’d have meat tonight. His sword lay by his side, a bit battered. He should sharpen it tonight. He stared at the campfire, mesmerized.

He remembered how he slew the boar.

It was charging at him, readied his sword and shield, wait for it to lower its tusk, and spin left, away from harm’s aim. The boar crashed into a tree, falling it. It turned around, its beady eyes locked onto his and pawed the ground. It was enraged.

It was _thrilling_. So different than before— dull, lifeless. He welcomed it.

It charged again, but not fast enough, his sword jabbed between its beady, rage-filled eyes. The sound of its skull cracking reverberated through the silent sky, as its brain was pierced through. Its dying squeals... sounded like how he imagined his brother would too.

He _relished_ in it.

:::::::

It was Harry’s turn to cook again. Everyone waited with anticipation, apparently being a potioneer meant mouth-watering cooking skills.

The meat was rabbit, courtesy of Ron who beamed proudly at his side. Ron was proud to have his hard work be part of tonight’s dinner. Who wouldn’t be?

He watched as Harry sat by the fire, tending to the stew. Face focused as he added spices and herbs into the pot. Adding a brand of magic unknown to everyone but the faery. At least it tasted delicious.

“Mmmm, that smells _so good_ ,” Ron salivated as the steam wafted over him, “Is it almost done?”

Harry chuckled at that, “Yes, indeed it is. Let me add a few touches to it first.”

“But I’m sure it’ll still taste fine even if you don’t finish adding other spices!”

A scandalized _‘Ronald!’_ could be heard from Hermione as everyone laughed, and Ron blushed fiercely.

:::::::

Feathers of white, silver and gray whirled through the air. Some slowly drifting towards the already feather-strewn ground, while others flew back up, disturbed by mild updrafts. Carefree laughter rang through the clearing as flocks of birds encircled a person amidst its storm.

Ron watched on, bored, as he sat on a nearby rock; Hermione was playing with a fallen feather, while he was staring at his own reflection in the clear, blue lake. His face stared back, even when a water bug landed on top of it, causing ripples to distort his brown eyes.

“Hey,” He looked up as Ron stretched for a moment, before resting his chin on his closed fist. “Why do you think Harry’s going to Hogsmeade? He never told us after we told him.”

“ _Ronald_ ,” Hermione hissed in a whisper, “It’s impolite! Harry might have a reason why!”

He looked at Harry, the person inside the cyclone of birds, laughing as the birds pecked at his fingers for a peck of breadcrumbs. He looked back at Ron and said, Who knows? Maybe it’s something personal.

“Aren’t _all_ journeys to Hogsmeade personal, one way or another?”

“ _Precisely!_ Now shut up about it, you might upset him and—”

Ron tsked and shouted, “Harry, what’s your reason to go to Hogsmeade?”

The laughter stopped and the sound of wing flaps settled to a few. He stared as Harry went silent and lifted his finger to catch a landing bird. The faery looked solemn as he tickled the bird’s chin, and silence reigned for a few seconds more. Without looking up, Harry said, “I’m looking for something, something I lost.”

:::::::

A week later found them in Castimonia, a small city-village near the main roads of Hufflepuff. The group was split up, Ron with Hermione, and Harry with him. They were each tasked to buy supplies to continue their journey. Hermione estimated that it will take at least another week and maybe a half.

Harry was wandering down the aisles of stalls, occasionally picking up fruits to inspect. Smiling when a good fruit was found. He reminded him of… So similar to…

He looked away. He’s happy now, he found a family. An actual _family_ , like the ones he’s read in books or seen in shows. Or like the ones he’s seen in Valor. Hermione’s the mother— even if she _is_ a cat, Ron the lazy brother, and Harry the caring father… brother?

“Morse,” He looked back to Harry who had such an anxious face, “Are you alright? Do you need a pepper-up potion?

A pepper-up potion? Did he really look that awful? Well… he did have a nightmare last night. And the night before, and the one before that, so maybe the worry wasn’t that unfound after all.

Sure, he said, I’ll take one, if you don’t mind.

And Harry’s answering smile was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

“It’s no bother.”

:::::::

After two hours of shopping, Harry and he left for the rendezvous place, a bar named _Badger’s Claw_.

Harry noticed Ron’s waving hand, and pointed it out to him. They weaved through the patron-filled bar to the table. He noticed that five plates of food were on the table— two were half-way eaten, two were completely clean, and one still full. He thought it was weird, why five? Usually, it was four, if they ever ate out. Two for Ron— because Hermione limits him— one for Hermione, and one for him. Harry rarely ate these— said that it’s super unhealthy, kind of like fast food— but when he does, either he or Hermione shares their plate.

Why are there five plates? He asked when they reached the table, Is Hermione extra hungry today, or is there someone else?

The cat looked scandalized at his accusation, and Ron took the opportunity to laugh at her. It took a while, but Ron managed to calm down, slapping the table so hard, the plates rattled, with tears in his eyes. He heaved for a while, breathing in large gulps of air, before answering, “Ah, we, um, found another companion for our trip. He’s a, a, oh what was it? Do you remember Hermione?”

Hermione had her nose in the air, and she sniffed imperiously, “Yes, yes I do. But why should I tell you? You laughed at me.”

“Oh come off it, Hermione, it was just a joke. Why aren’t you mad at Morse anyways, he started it!”

Before she could answer, however, another voice popped up.

“He-hello, I’m N-Neville.”

He turned towards the one who called himself ‘N-Neville’, he looked like a brown puppy. A sad and kicked one. Pathetic.

Hi, he said with a big smile, I’m Morse. What’s with your...ears?

“Oh, um, I had an accident,” The puppy explained while rubbing his dog ears, “I, um, couldn’t revert back from my animagus form properly.” His volume started to quiet in shame, and everyone had to lean in to hear the rest, “So… I’m left with these until I can find someone in Hogsmeade to fix me. My, ah, my village’s healer said it was out of her league, and Gran kicked me out until I was fixed. So I won’t shame my family name…”

Silence held in the air, a contrast to the noisy, bustling bar around them. The puppy looked so uncomfortable, he was even fidgeting! He hasn’t even met him for ten minutes, and he can tell that the puppy was pathetic. Like him before, before he came to Hogwarts. Pathetic.

“Well then,” It was Harry who broke the silence, with a reassuring smile on his face, “I’m Harry, the potioneer of our group,” Here he raised his hand to shake, “and you’ve met Ron, Hermione, and Morse. What can you do?”

The puppy grabbed the faery’s hand as if it was a lifeline. “Well, I can cook, and d-do chores. Um, I can also communicate with plants. I’m not yet a plant mage but I am a water mage. Though a low-level one…” His eyes began to fill, creating trademark puppy eyes. Pathetic. “P-p-please! Let me join! I’ll do anything! Anything!”

Before anyone could react, Hermione immediately proclaimed, “Of course we’ll let you join!”

He stared at her with concealed shock. Weren’t cats and dogs supposed to be _enemies_?

So the group continued onwards, a boy, a teen, a cat, a faery, and a puppy.

:::::::

_Pathetic._ Pathetic, pathetic! He refused to call the puppy by its name. It didn’t deserve it! All it did was follow Harry, like the lovesick puppy it was!

He crushed the yellow leaves in his fist into dust. He watched as the puppy trailed after Harry, like how he trailed after hi— _NO!_ He gritted his teeth and stood, grinding the fallen leaves into the forest floor with each step he took. He refused to continue that thought.

He wasn’t the boy from before, before Hogwarts.

He wasn’t weak, he wasn’t _pathetic._

_He. Was. Strong._

:::::::

“Morse,” His head snapped to attention, “You don’t look fine, mate.”

He narrowed his eyes at Ron, I am fine, he hissed.

“No, you aren’t,” Ron dismissed, “Even _I_ can tell, and I’m the most obtuse out of this group. Go grab a potion from Harry.”

He glared at Ron but complied. Getting up from his perch on the log, he searched for Harry. He found the faery near his cauldron, bubbling away with another potion unknown to anyone but him. The puppy wasn’t there.

Thank heavens.

Where’s Neville? He asked.

Harry lifted his head and only gave him an eyebrow.

When no response came to his question, he huffed and rolled his eyes. I’m here for a potion. I think it’s called the ‘Calming Draught’? Ron told me to grab one.

Harry snorted and rubbed his hands on his pants, he stretched hands overhead, before heading towards his sack of potions.

As he looked through his bag, Harry answered his previous question, “He’s helping me find some herbs and potions ingredients. He knows this area like the back of his hand and his knowledge in plants rivals mine. Besides, the plants he comes back with are exceptional.

“Here,” And he caught the blue-ish potion that Harry threw at him.

Thanks, he said.

:::::::

“Look! There it is, Hogsmeade!” Hermione cried from her perch on Ron’s head.

It had taken them a little bit over two weeks instead of the estimated one and a half. Who knew that rain could be so devastating?

Hogsmeade bustled with people of many robe colors. There were traders and merchants from the four counties. Many shades of red, blue and yellow, and surprisingly four or five greens.

As they neared the gates, one of the guards shouted for them to halt, so they did.

He noticed that the guards wore brown, a shade lighter than the dirt beneath their feet. He looked beyond them and noticed that the citizens who lived in the capital wore dulled colors, but the most constant thing was purple. Not a dark or pleasing purple, but an obnoxious one. Everyone had at least one thing that was purple on them. Purple flower, purple sash, purple brooch, purple _anything._

“Halt!” The guard cried, “Is this your first visit to Hogsmeade, the grand capital of the most prosperous kingdom on the continent, Hogwarts?” He saw that the guards were embarrassed, even if they hid it well. Who wouldn’t be, such an outlandish script to be memorized and said.

“Yes, sir,” Ron said.

“Then as your first time, the king has decreed everyone new to Hogsmeade, the grand capital of the most prosperous kingdom on the continent, Hogwarts, should ask for his council. And it is _highly recommended_ to present him with a gift, each. Preferably the items from our stores.”

Everyone was shocked, what kind of monarch was this? The monarchs he read before, none of them were like this! Even Hermione had her jaw dropped, so was Harry’s, but his was more concealed.

Before they could reply, they were ushered through the gates, the transition from dirt to stone unnoticed as they entered, stunned and appalled.

:::::::

“So those are the reasons why you came to my capital, eh? My, how wondrous! Isn’t it so, Minerva?” The king asked his confidant.

He breathed in deeply through his nose. The king, the _king_ was incompetent. He relied on his confidant for _everything_. At least he now knew why everyone in the capital wore something purple. The king himself wore an outfit of many shades of purple, from crown— gold with amethyst gems— to the soles of his shoes, _all_ was purple.

He even said his favorite color was the obnoxious shade of purple.

It took him thirty minutes to introduce himself, ‘King Gilderoy Lockhart XVI of the Most Prosperous Kingdom on the Continent, Hogwarts and I Love Purple’, to their group; another forty-five on whether he should change Hogwarts’ coat of arms to his favorite flower and color, and how unfair his confidant is to deny him this right. And to top it off, he had them kneeling for the whole time, and he has yet to acknowledge them!

Minerva, the confident, sighed and said, “Yes, your Highness, you’re absolutely correct.”

“Of course I am!” His Incompetence bragged, and he thought for a moment before his face brightened with glee, “You know what? I’ll strike you guys a deal,” And he leaned forward on his purple throne, as if he was sharing a secret, “If you three youths,” Addressing Ron, Harry, and the puppy, “accompany this guy,” Pointing to him, “Then I’ll do it, for free!

“ _All_ of your current requests: money, fame, power, healing, _anything._

_“ _I’ll do it._ ”_

__

He stared out of the corner of his eyes, he saw them, _observed_ them, as they thought. The scrunched face of Ron, the hesitating of Hermione’s, the cowardice of the puppy’s, and the raised eyebrows of Harry’s.

He watched.

:::::::

“W-well, Morse, I guess we’ll be traveling together s-some more.” The puppy had the _nerve_ to speak with him. He withheld his urge to sneer.

So we are, he said instead and smiled, I guess the whole group’s coming too right?

“We are,” Harry confirmed.

He hummed. I’ve seen your skills, all of you guys, I mean, he commented, it’ll work out, one way or another.

Hermione padded up to him and rubbed his legs, the most cat-like he’s ever seen her. “We’re sorry.”

It’s fine, is what he doesn’t say.

:::::::

Right after they stepped off the main road to Slytherin, they encountered a village filled with despair.

Houses were razed, trees were charred, crops and ground burned, and large animals slaughtered. Nothing for the surviving citizens to sustain on. All that was left for meat were fat rats and the corpses that lined the street, which lacked the distinct rot because of the eternal Autumn.

The gray stone road was dyed dull copper brown, with some spots darker than others.

No one questioned what it was.

Harry, the most courageous, braved the task of asking an emaciated citizen of what passed through. The living skeleton looked up at Harry with such fear, it was as if Harry himself caused the destruction.

But it was impossible because it was Harry’s first time venturing into Western Lands.

Evidently someone slighted the Evil Wizard. Whether it was a single peasant of low stature or a wealthy noble family was the cause, no one knew. All they knew was that no one was spared. The rich, the poor, the noble, the rude, the old, the young— _no one_ was safe from the Evil Wizard’s wrath.

And once his wrath was done, the Evil Wizard would slight the village’s name off maps.

:::::::

_Come here, come here_  
_Young and Old,_  
_Let me tell you_  
_Of someone Bold,_  
_Who thrashed and threw ___  
_Under His red, red glow_  
_And screams of pain drew_  
_Till the spine bowed and bowed. ___

_____ _

:::::::

During a dark, dark storm, the group managed to escape into an abandoned manor. They were fortunate as the large black clouds swiftly covered the noon sun, plunging the light into darkness.

The rain battered the windows with such ferocity, he was surprised that they didn’t break. Each fat drop would cause the glass to shake and emit sounds like tiny bass gongs. And when he lit up their reserve of candles, the shadows of the raindrops made the manor appear even more haunted.

He walked through the halls of the manor with only a candle in his hand. Gazing up at slashed portraits and wrecked walls. Peeking at forgotten and, maybe, forbidden history.

He opened a door and ventured in, a room full of empty bookshelves and broken furniture. He set down his flickering candle on a nearby dusty desk and looked around.

Scraps of debris littered the floor and the wallpapers showed signs of burns and large gashes. Struggles definitely happened here. And when bright lightning cracked, illuminating the room, he saw patches of once wet large puddles. After the white light dimmed, the thunder that accompanied was so loud and so close, it shook the manor to its very foundation, making the lost family’s story more ominous still.

And it certainly did not help when a shrill scream had him grabbing his candle and running towards the sound, for fear that a ghost mayhaps seen their entry as trespassing.

It wasn’t a ghost, but it may as well have been. For when he entered the kitchen, accompanied by frightened members, six to seven skeletons, still in their clothes, greeted them.

The cause of death was questionable, but the reason was clear: someone incited the Evil Wizard’s wrath.

And once his wrath was done, the Evil Wizard would slight the family’s name off books.

:::::::

_Come here, come here_  
_Fools and Sage,_  
_Let me tell you_  
_Of someone Caged,_  
_Who lived under rule_  
_Beneath His yellow, yellow smoke_  
_To slay and be cruel_  
_Till the mind broke and broke._

:::::::

On the road once more, they went under branches of rich green leaves. Shading them from the weak, sleepy sun, but never the cold, biting wind.

From village roads to forest paths, they traveled. Wary of all, wary of many, because in Slytherin, one looked after themselves. Even family and close friends were to not be trusted.

The traveling group learned it the hard way when an innkeeper tried to steal their valuables. No one helped; all they did was watch and pity.

To survive in Slytherin, one had to be self-sufficient; which brings power. And with power, comes subjugation.

A clear example was when they passed a large field with many, many small hills. Some had wooden planks, stone slabs, or none at all. Graves, all of them were, and upon closer inspection, they did not have names, but numbers.

When they walked further, they passed a sign: ‘Graves of the Litch Rebellion’.

The Litch had too much power; they became a threat and made a mistake. A mistake that the Evil Wizard preyed upon and unleashed his wrath.

And once his wrath was done, the Evil Wizard would slight the soul off existence.

:::::::

_Come here, come here_  
_Lads and Maids,_  
_Let me tell you_  
_Of someone Slayed,_  
_Who shattered and cracked_  
_Under His green, green blaze_  
_For soul and spirit lacked_  
_Till the eyes hazed and hazed._

:::::::

They’ve arrived in Astutus, the major city of Slytherin County, in the early morning when they were notified that a festival was being prepared. A festival meant to celebrate the ascension of their leader, the Evil Wizard of the West.

Green and silver were being placed on buildings, tastefully placed in pleasing ways. People were running to and fro, buying last-minute supplies. He noticed that the people here were healthy— happy, not living in fear like the other city-villages was. But he also noticed that the people here wore rich and fashionable garments, much more expensive than the people who lived in Valor. Even the wealthiest nobility in Valor wore only the clothes of Slytherin shopkeepers.

Even the architecture had a vast difference. Gryffindor was the epitome of medieval England, with wattle and daub and the occasional harsh stones. In contrast, Slytherin was all smooth stones and white-gray bricks, uniform and tall, like 19th-century modern cities.

As he took in these differences, Harry, Hermione, and Ron left for the shops, leaving him with the puppy. He side-eyed it and told the puppy to follow, and follow it did.

He went into a clothes shop, buying garments that would help them blend in. He wore his and tossed a set to the puppy who fumbled to catch it. He held onto the other two and bought a green ribbon for Hermione.

The clock struck eleven when the group found themselves again. The crowds began to thicken on both sides of the street, hiding the camouflaged travelers from plain sight. Loud music began to play, fanfares for Slytherin and his posse.

He looked at his group and noticed that Ron wore his jacket wrong and looked absolutely ridiculous with sugar powder all over himself. No surprise that Ron found a food stall, at least it was delicious and— in a hush-hush voice— better than his mother’s.  
Hermione was on the puppy’s head, both enraptured at the parades and decoration. He couldn’t fault them, it was beautiful and perfectly synchronized.

All of a sudden, a different bugle sounded, long and proud. People all around them began to kneel. They hastily complied with them, afraid to be caught before their mission even started.

He discreetly looked up, watching as a beautiful white horse-drawn carriage appeared, the first of its entourage. Inside it was a family of blondes, hair so pale, they looked white. The patriarch stood proudly with a cane in front as he looked down upon the cheering masses.

Gray carriages, brown carriages, dark green carriages passed before a large black one appeared. He could feel the powerful, hard eyes roam over the crowd, making everyone shiver in fear. He could practically feel Harry vibrating beside him. He ducked his head before he could be caught staring.

But not before he caught a glimpse.

Pale skin, waxy and white, untouched by sunlight. Tall and gaunt, towering over everyone. There was no hair, no nose, no lips. In their place was a smooth, bald head, a pair of slits for a nose, and a thin, near-lipless mouth. Malicious, glowing red eyes gleaming at the kneeling citizens. All swaddled in cloth darker than the night or the darkest black.

It was hideous.

Hideous and serpentine, inhuman. A monster in every aspect.

The Evil Wizard of the West.

:::::::

_Come here, come here_  
_Anyone,_  
_Let me warn you:_  
_Do not run_  
_Nor fight, nor bore_  
_The Serpentine_  
_Whose very core_  
_Flows with grime and crime._

:::::::

That night, he stayed up, sharpening his broadsword. The long _‘shing’_ of each drag of the stone rang loudly in the silent sky.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they strike. Right after the festivals, no one would expect it.

Everyone would be drunk, drunk off alcohol and power. Especially the leader. Safe and secure in their own nest, none of them would be ready. It’s inconceivable that someone would challenge their power. They’ll have their guards down; they’ll be vulnerable, _powerless._

That. That is when he would strike.

:::::::

They left in the morning. Nerveless and prepared. They grabbed their weapons; he his broadsword, Ron his axe, Hermione her brain and claws, Harry his potions and daggers, and the puppy his magic. They downed more of Harry’s potions. For strength and luck.

They were ready.

:::::::

_BAM!_

The great mahogany doors slammed open, and he charged in first, leading the rest. His feet ran on soft, plush dark green carpet, threatening to make him fall with each step he took. It was a hazard. He wished he had magic, to burn it all.

A nervous somebody peeked out of a door. He rushed at them, unmindful of their status and cut them down. Blood arced and splattered onto the wall in front of him. Some hit his face. It was warm.

He stood there and acknowledged it for a moment before he continued onwards.

Shrieks and screams filled the morning sky instead of bird calls. It woke everyone up, but they were no match for they were all inebriated and sleep-deprived.

He smiled, it was a wicked thing. This is what he trained for, to eradicate the evil and save the good. He was repaying his debt to Dumbledore.

He spared a second to look at his team, they were flourishing splendidly. He called for them to move onwards, he didn’t care that some of them looked ready to puke, this was their punishment. Their price for greed.

“W-wait!” The puppy cried his face slightly green, “Why… why are you doing this?”

For the Greater Good, he replied. He began to leave when Hermione called out.

“Why _us_?”

He turned back to stare at her, incredulous, I didn’t put you up to this; you did it to yourselves. Now, it’s kill, or be killed.

Capable guards began to appear, ushering the wealthy guests into the inner rooms. They cowered and shook with fear— pathetic, _weak._

He ran forward, surprised to see the bookish faery right beside him. He didn’t look scared, just like him. Didn’t flinch at wounds, nor rear away from pain. He looked… experienced.

He smirked to himself; Harry was exactly like that one phrase… Ah, what was it? Something about ‘quiet’. Oh, right, it was _‘the quiet ones are the scary ones’!_ He barked out a laugh as he cut down a guard.

He heard the air whistle beside him, and his eyes widened. He forgot to bring his shield. But before the blade could land, thick vines wrapped around it, trapping it. He stared at the blade, straining to cut through. The guard looked nervous, and he raised his sword, gutting him through his flimsy armor. He ignored the _plop-splat_ as innards fell and whirled around to the puppy, marveled that he would do such a thing.

He gave the puppy a wide smile who only stared back at him in horror, Thanks, Neville! Perhaps the puppy wasn’t so pathetic after all.  
He faced back towards the new influx of guards; they were all standing warily of him. He knew he should feel pity and spare them, but he felt powerful, _feared._ He was finally the one making others cower; therefore he couldn’t give this up.

Well, he did feel a little bit sorry, that they had to be against him. But it couldn’t be helped, after all, his blood was _singing._ The guards trembled even further when he gave them a smile.

It was a feral, feral thing.

:::::::

He rose up from his crouch, dragging his sword from the eye socket of one of those white-blondes he saw the other day. Maybe it was a cousin or something; he didn’t see this one at the parade. Oh well.

He ignored the squishing sound as the tip of his sword exited, swinging it around to rid it of the blood and vitreous humor that got stuck. He stretched for a second before he looked around.

He got lost, or more importantly, he was alone, and there was nothing in this hall except for blood splatters and bodies. He carded his hand through his hair, noticing it tugged on many, many knots. He took it out and raised it to the light, it was red. He refocused his gaze when he noticed drops where dripping from his hair, they were red too.

He patted his face when a drop began to run down his cheek, he lifted his finger to eye level before shrugging and licking it. It tasted salty, and a tinge of copper, like his own. Oh ew, he didn’t know whose blood that was. That was so stupid, who knew if there were some diseases there. Gross.

He shook his head, droplets of red flying everywhere, staining the plaster that he was nearby. He stretched again, this time noticing a dark double door. He cocked his head, wondering what it was for. He didn’t hesitate as he walked towards it and ran his hands on the polished handle. He tilted it down and pushed open the door. Like that one movie said: _‘No time for caution’._

The room before him was dark; all the windows had black-out curtains. But there was enough light that spilled through the cracks to see. He walked into the center of the room, feet on creaking burnt walnut. He slowly turned in a circle, admiring the room around him.

Bookshelves lined the whole walls, all filled impossibly full with books. A large, beautiful desk sat in front of a silver-veined black marble fireplace. Dark plush chairs and lounges were strategically placed to face the desk, making it impossible to ignore the owner of this room.

It was like that one room he ventured into in the abandoned manor, but more extravagant. He looked up and noticed a dark tinted glass dome, and upon longer inspection, he could see white twinkling dots— like stars. But then he heard whispers, and he whirled around.

The moving paintings were staring at him, and he stared back, unafraid. They were whispering to each other, something about his audacity and whatnot. He didn’t care what they thought of him, they weren’t real. He watched a few portraits eyes fleeting to one direction, his curiosity was piqued.

He turned and saw a wardrobe that he swore wasn’t there before. It was tall and intricately carved and, like everything else in the room, beautiful. It captured his attention, made him want to open it. He was entranced and began walking forward, hand outstretched. He was about to touch the knob when a skin-crawling hiss spoke, breaking his trance.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

He whipped around, heart pounding in his ears, and lifted his sword. He didn’t hear anyone walk in, and now he couldn’t see anyone either.

Show yourself! He commanded voice barely cracking.

“An _order_? Was that an order I hear?” The voice chuckled and the portraits in the room began to murmur their agreements.

Silence! He hissed, I said show yourself!

Then, in front of him, two red dots suddenly appeared in the shadows. It darted to and fro before a smile showcasing long, sharp teeth split the darkness. He watched as the teeth separated and showed its dark, scary maw.  


“And why should I? Why should I do as you say? What do _I_ get afterward?”

Stop it! He roared, Just come out!

It let out a hissy laughter before the red dots extinguished. He raised his sword higher and twisted left and right, attempting to find it. Suddenly he felt warm breath from behind his ear.

“I can taste your fear…”

He struck at the voice, or where it was. He walked forwards, braving himself with the courage he still had. One step, two step, three step, four. There was no other sound except for his footsteps. He stopped, hoping to hear anything, but all he heard was nothing. He slowly crept forwards, ears craned to the tiniest of disturbance.

“Boo.”

He scrambled backward; it cackled at him joined with many smaller ones, as if he was some sort of entertainment. How _dare_ they laugh at him! His pride was wounded, and his rage overcame his irrational fear. _He_ wasn’t supposed to cower— _they_ were supposed to cower, not _him_. He shouted out and swung his sword in a circle around him. The laughter wavered away from his strike, and he did it again and again and again, stepping forward each time. Until he stabbed his sword into the wooden planks, heaving and _enraged._

“Oh, my, tired are you? Well that’s sad, but I’ll pity you, how about that?”

He glared up at the voice and spat at it. He didn’t need _pity._

He could hear it _grin,_ this monster. “Well, you may call me Lord Voldemort, first of all,” And it came out of the shadows, standing in front of him in all its hideous glory.

You, he bit out.

“Me,” It agreed, “‘The Evil Wizard of the West’, how may I help you?” Its tongue flickered out to taunt him, like the snake that it was.

He lifted his sword and swung it at the monster. Die, he said.

It nimbly dodged and its face widened in amusement. “Aren’t you violent, much more violent than the others before you.”

What? And before he could swing another strike or question the statement, he was on the floor, in pain. Pain. Pain, pain, pain, _pain!_ He bit his tongue, blood filling his mouth, in hopes to hold back his screams.

But it was impossible, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He screamed, his blood filled mouth opened, spilling its contents besides him. He was vaguely aware that his blood tasted the same as the one he licked before.

Tears were streaming down his face, unwittingly, and his voice began to crack and tear. His body twitched and writhed under the pain, never still. Then, when he began to think it would never end, it stopped.

He stayed there, eyes unfocused as his body spasmed periodically. Wha-what? What was that? His limbs wouldn’t listen, he tried to push himself up, but all he did was twitch.

W-what was th-that? He rasped out, blood dripped out like an obscene leak, his voice broken and hoarse from screaming.

“Ah, that? That was the Cruciatus Curse,” The monster grabbed his hair and yanked up, hard. “That was for killing one of my loyal followers.”

His head was in a painful position, but he managed to gather his saliva and blood and spat at the monster’s face. He watched as the shiny red-pink glob travel down its cheek. Suddenly, his head was lifted higher before it was thrown onto the planks. He moaned in pain and rolled his head to glare at his assaulter.

It bought a hand to its cheek and wiped it off; its expression was hard, amusement no longer present. Good.

“You know,” It began, “You’re the second cheekiest one that was sent out.” And it began to circle him, like a vulture to carrion. “The others never had the nerve to cheek me after their taste of the Cruciatus.

What, he coughed out, what do you mean ‘others’?

“Precisely what I mean. There were others, you weren’t the first, nor would you be the last.” It stopped and looked down upon him. “Did you think you were special?”

Others? There were others before him? He wasn’t the only one given this task? He began to hyperventilate. B-but, he stuttered out, Dumbledore said that this task was for me and me only. He swore it was!

After his admission, silence reigned, before the monster knocked his head back and laughed, cruel and dark like the room around them. “ _Dumbledore_ will say _anything_ to get you on this false quest of yours. You were _raised_ to be _slaughtered._ ”

The breaths he began to heave in sounded like sobs. It was a lie, everything was a lie. He felt betrayed, used. Just like how his brother used him. He felt abandoned... Wait, his teammates could come save him, he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, and those friends of yours?” It said with mock gentleness, “They were either killed or captured.”

His eyes widened before he shut them in anguish. No, his last hope. His last hope for survival was gone. He felt tears began to seep through his closed eyelids.

“Ah, yes,” It grinned, “Let’s see, there was that dog-boy”— _the puppy, no,_ Neville— “the raven-haired”— _Harry_ — “the ugly cat” — _Hermione_ — “and that Gryffindor”— _Ron_ — “Did I miss any?”

He shook his head and sobbed, he was all alone now. No one would come save him. He was going to die. He was going to die!

“Now, all that’s left is _you._ ”

No. No, no! He _refused_ to die, he finally found a life. He wasn’t going to give it up. Not now, not _ever._ He overrides his twitchy limbs and struggled to get up. Forcing his body to run towards the first pair of doors he found.

There, there! He ran towards the door, hands outstretched for the knob and turned it.

A round textured knob.

It was the wrong handle, the wrong door. He looked up in horror. The doors flung open and out came a voice. _The_ voice. _The_ voice that haunted him since he was five.

He fell onto his back and began to scramble away. Footsteps were coming— _those footsteps were coming!_ His back hit something solid.

_No!_ He had to get away, _away!_ Before he’s here before he—

_“Where do you think you’re going,_ Morse _?”_

And for the first time in seventeen months, he felt dread. Absolute, unavoidable _dread._

:::::::  
:::::::::  
:::::::

And so the journey ended as a failure, with no boy, no teen, no cat, no fairy, and no puppy to account for.

:::::::  
:::::::::  
:::::::::::  
:::::::::  
:::::::

The Evil Wizard of the West stared down at the naked and marked body that snuggled closer beside him. He carded his fingers through the dark locks of his pet, reminiscing about the events that happened today.

His pet came back today, after seventeen months of absence, and he did a commendable job. So he showered his pet with the affection that he knows of, he ravaged him— round after round after round, until his pet fell asleep in the middle of one, exhausted and sore.

His pet deserved it; after all, weakening the hero is no easy feat. Presenting potions that not only fooled but slowly destroyed the victim? His pet was just so _cunning._ Lord Voldemort laughed.

He was surprised to find that his pet transfigured himself into his original, younger form.

The very form that he arrived in at Hogwarts, the very one that took that one quest that killed his friends.

When Lord Voldemort first met him, he took out the previous hero that he captured and slaughtered it in front of him. His pet radiated such _fury_ , such _pain, delicious_ ; he savored it when he took him.

His pet stayed and entertained him for three years before another hero arrived. Lord Voldemort began to look upon the new hero, and what did his pet do?

He killed them.

His pet, the _compassionate_ and _friendly_ pet of his, _murdered_ another hero. All so he could stay and be the _only_ hero Lord Voldemort kept. Be the only hero that Lord Voldemort would _ever_ keep.

It frustrated him at first, but then it became entertaining. Watching how his pet executed each hero differently, with identities and backstories that were never reused twice. He even went so far as to change his own appearance each time. Such a _cunning, cunning_ pet.

Lord Voldemort knew why his pet, the 748th hero, would kill the 53 others. He wasn’t blind, nor dumb, he knows why _Harry_ killed. It’s to keep his own life— how _selfish_ his pet is.

But Lord Voldemort doesn’t fault him. His pet was bred that way.

All the heroes were bred that way. All looking for comfort, love, _affection._ Who knows what their life was like before coming to Hogwarts? Definitely not enviable, or else they would have never been summoned here. They were all kindred souls, that’s why his pet can so easily ensnare them, kill them, and keep his position.

His _selfish, cunning, delicious_ pet.

It also doesn’t help his pet’s paranoia when Dumbledore keeps sending heroes on the very same quest. Sometimes years or even decades pass, but Dumbledore never fails to send one. Never failing to set up a hero somewhere in Gryffindor, carving out a path that has been traveled by another at least once before.

But he has to thank Dumbledore, though he’ll never admit it, for handing his pet on a silver platter. It’s quite bothersome, but he… developed an… _affection_ for his pet. So he’ll never kill him.

Not that Lord Voldemort will ever tell his pet, of course.

Besides, what he never tells his pet would never hurt him, plus he brings such _fine_ entertainment.

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations! You've finished my word vomit of incoherency!  
> This isn't my usual writing style (not that i write much anyways, or will in the future) so I apologize if the POV seemed weird or incomprehensible.  
> Note: I love Neville, I truly do, but Morse... Morse just... doesn't.  
> Comments and criticism are welcome!  
> * If you think I'm missing tags, tell me, please?


End file.
